Confessions of a Chocoholic
by SiriusMarauderFan
Summary: OneShot. Young Rosmerta Callaway pays a visit to Azkaban and meets a very old man imprisoned there. Written for the Harry Potter Roulette Challenge on the HP Fanfiction Challenges forum.


**Author's Note:**

All I was told was that I had to write a story with Percival Dumbledore and Madam Rosmerta as the main characters, and chocolate was my prompt. Believe it or not, I forgot what my prompt was when I came up with the idea! =D

**Confessions of a Chocoholic**

The small wooden rowboat rocked as it sailed magically across the water. For the fifth time since they started their journey a half hour ago, the guard assured her that the rocking was completely normal, but the storm clouds moving overhead gave away his lies. Rosmerta doubted they'd make it back to dry land without being drenched first - whether by storm or sea, she had yet to decide.

Rosmerta Callaway was twenty years old, and had been that way for just three weeks. She had curly brown hair that normally fell past her shoulders, but today was piled beneath her hat. Her hazel eyes wandered over to her assigned guard and caught him looking at her again. He was around her age and probably thought he had a chance of getting together with her. She knew better. She set her sights higher than someone who temporarily protected visitors to Azkaban.

"How much longer?" she sighed.

"'Bout another thirty minutes. You're not gonna be sea-sick, are you?"

"No. I just don't like having nothing to do."

"Oh, in that case, would you like me to sing you a song? I'm quite a good singer, you know."

"I'd rather you didn't. But thank you for the offer." She shot him a small smile then turned her head to face the shore of Britain, from which she just came. Slowly, she turned her head in the opposite direction to stare at the small island in the distance with a tall, foreboding fortress on it that was large enough to be seen from the shoreline. Staring at the fortress sent a shiver down Rosmerta's back.

"So, what brings you to Azkaban, anyhow? Visiting your husband?" the guard joked. She glared at him and considered lying to him, saying how her father and overly protective brothers were about to be released from the prison. She changed her mind at the last second and went with the truth.

"My aunt's in there. She ... they say she died. I've come to make sure."

"What was she in for?"

"Murder." Well, she had to scare him off somehow.

They spent the rest of the trip in silence. The boat reached the island sooner than Rosmerta had expected, and luckily just as the rain had started to fall. Already she could feel whatever cheerfulness was left in her washing away with the rain. But she supposed this had very little to do with the weather and more to do with the Dementors that were circling the facility.

The guard - whose name Rosmerta suddenly remembered was Walter - gripped her arm tightly and began to lead her up a rocky path to a pair of iron gates. There, another, older man searched them both, but found nothing suspicious. And Walter not only had to drink a small vial of blue liquid, but say a password as well. His wand was also inspected and given back to him. Her wand, however, was , they were allowed to pass into the fortress with two pass cards that only allowed them into one specific area, and a couple of chocolate bars each.

"Sector Nine is this way," he said, leading her down a corridor so narrow that they had to walk sideways so he wouldn't have to let go of her arm. On either side of the corridor were dozens of cell doors. Most of them were solid iron with just one opening near the bottom for food trays to be slid in and out of. Currently, all of these openings were closed and locked as well. Then there were a few cells which had bars for doors. Rosmerta could look in, and the prisoners could look back at her. But none of the prisoners did look. Some were quiet, some were crying, some were even trying to sleep, but none were looking at her.

"Why are the doors different?" she whispered to Walter. It didn't make a difference, the noise still echoed throughout the hall.

"Different crimes deserve different punishments," he answered, talking normally. "The more severe criminals get the private cells. Totally cut-off from human contact. They're sound-proof too, so they can't hear anything that doesn't happen in that room."

"But why are they all mixed up like this? Shouldn't those criminals be separated from the others?"

"No. There's no logical system for how the prisoners are sorted, so no one can plan a break-out."

When they finally reached their desired cell - one with bars - Walter inserted his wand into a hole in the wall and the door opened.

"I'll be down that way when you're done," he said, pointing down the way they'd come. "Yell if you need me."

He left her standing in the corridor, looking scared. When he was out of sight, she took a deep breath and walked inside the cell.

The walls were concrete, old and cracked and windowless. There was a toilet and sink in one corner and the bed, the only piece of furniture, was in the other. Several books were stacked neatly by the bed. But the only thing Rosmerta could concentrate on was the body laying on the bed.

Rosmerta remembered her aunt Bridget as being full of energy and always having fun. But that was over ten years ago, long before she had been sentenced to fifteen years in Azkaban for robbing a muggle bank. Bridget had never allowed her brother and niece to come visit her in jail though, always saying she'd rather they not have to deal with the Dementors just so they could see her. The same Dementors that Rosmerta could feel on the other side of the cold walls, feeding on those happy memories of her aunt.

The young woman took a few steps toward the bed and touched Bridget's hand. She was surprised to find it warm from the magic of the stasis charms put on her.

"Goodbye, Auntie," she whispered, and kissed Bridget's forehead.

As she left the cell, she pulled a chocolate bar out of her pocket. She quickly unwrapped it and took two large bites out of it. Already she could feel her sorrow ebbing away. Once the chocolate was put away, she looked down the corridor to her right. It was dark and she could hardly see twenty feet in that direction. While she'd been inside, three gas lamps that lit the halls from the high ceilings had gone out. She looked the other way, which was still lit by the eerie light. It looked like the way she'd come, so she started walking down that way.

After a few minutes, she noticed that there were more full iron doors down this corridor, and she didn't remember that being the case when she had come in. She was just about to turn around when she heard a voice call out to her.

"Are you lost, Miss?"

Rosmerta looked ahead to the only barred cell for a long while. There was an elderly man on the other side of it, looking back at her. She hesitantly stepped forward to get a closer look at him. The cell looked identical to her aunt's with just more books and some parchment and ink wells littering the floor. And two photos were sticking to the wall above the bed. From her angle, she couldn't see what they were of.

"Um, a little. I think."

He chuckled. Rosmerta couldn't help but notice his good looks, even though he was at least eighty years older than herself. She imagined what he would have been like without the silver hair pulled back in a short pony-tail, and beard and mustache. And the regulation dingy grey shirt and pants prisoners were made to where were a definite turn-off, even if the fact that we was behind bars wasn't.

"Well, you never came down this way, if that helps any."

"You're sure?"

"I think I would have noticed, Miss." He smiled at her, but it faltered quickly afterward. Rosmerta could feel that overwhelming sadness coming back and quickly took the opened chocolate bar out of her pocket and took another bite.

"Strange how fast they move in on any of happiness, isn't it?" the old man commented. He turned away from the bars and went to lie down on the bed and started humming to himself.

"How long have you been in here?" she wondered. He stopped humming and looked over at her, shocked. She covered her mouth when she realized how rude she'd been. "I'm sorry. I ... I shouldn't have asked."

"No, it's all right. Most people don't care, you know. What's your name?"

"Rosmerta."

"I'm Percival. I've been in here since November of 1890. Now, let's see ... that was...." He picked a random scroll off the floor and looked it over. "Seventy-four years ago."

"Wow. That's ... um ...."

"A long time? Yes. Seems to go by faster when you don't count, though." He tucked the scroll under his mattress and returned to the door.

"May I ask ... why you're in here?"

"Well, it's not really a secret. I attacked three muggle boys." It was a statement. There was no emotion to it.

"You _what_?

"Yes. I was called a muggle-hater. Sent here for it." He shrugged and went back to humming.

"Are you?"

"Am I what?" 

"A muggle-hater."

Percival looked at her for a long time, seeming to study her. She shifted under his gaze, wondering if it was really a good idea to be conversing with a criminal. Finally he sighed and looked up at the two pictures on the wall. He took them both down and walked over to her, handing her the oldest of them. It was of a young family. The parents looked to be in their late twenties and the three children - two boys and one girl - ranged in ages from six to nine.

"My daughter," he said, reaching through bars to point at the little girl. "Ariana. She was just six years old when they saw her abilities. I suppose they were scared, but what they did to her ...." He sighed. "When I found out, when I saw how withdrawn she was, I lost it. I ran right over to the park where they played and attacked them. Luckily the aurors found me before I did any real damage to them. Their memories were modified and they were sent home. I never saw my girl after that."

"But they couldn't have sent you here for that. I mean, you did it for your daughter."

"They never found out about her, actually." He took the photo back and smiled as he looked at it. "I thought it was better to hide it. If nobody knew about Ariana's condition, they could take her away from us. And they would've. She was unstable, you see. She wouldn't use magic, but it made her insane. It would come out in small bursts whenever she was upset. And magic itself upset her." He handed Rosmerta the second picture, taken around eight years later when the children were all teenagers. Percival was absent from it.

"That was the last photo taken of them all together," he explained. "Ariana got upset that summer and Kendra, my wife, was hit by one of her stray curses. Ariana died a couple of months later, much the same way."

"And the boys?" Rosmerta wondered.

"They're still alive. I haven't seen Al in quite a few years, but Abe tells me he's doing well." He chuckled again as he took both photos and put them back on the wall. And then the cold feelings came back and Rosmerta could just imagine what horrible memories he had to relive every night. Taking another bite of her chocolate, she reached into her pocket and retrieved the second, unopened bar.

"Here," she said, sliding it across the cell floor at him. "You need it more than I do."

"Thank you." He picked it up and quickly unwrapped it. They spent a minute enjoying the treat until the Dementor moved on. "So, tell me, Miss Rosmerta, why is it you've come to our fine institution today?"

"My aunt died here. I was sent to identify her."

"Oh, I'm sorry. What was she here for?"

"Theft. She robbed a muggle bank nine years ago."

"There's one you don't here every day."

Rosmerta laughed. "Yes. She was quite creative. She thought robbing Gringotts would be too hard, and that no one would catch her if she went into muggle London." She sighed. "I always felt responsible for her having to do it."

"Why is that?"

"She did it so I could have brand new things when I went to Hogwarts that year. My father didn't have a well-paying job, you see. And my mother left us when I was about three years old. So my aunt would take care of me all day while she worked at her pub, _The Enchanted Broomstick_."

"Good name."

"Yes. I suppose it'll be going to me now. She always said it would. Of course it'll need to be fixed up. It hasn't seen a customer or rag for nine years."

"Then might I suggest you rename it? Something similar to the first, so that the older customers remember and come back, but something new as well."

"All right. But I suppose _The Flying Broomstick_ is a bit dull, isn't it?"

"It sounds like a Quidditch supply store," Percival agreed. He gazed back at the photos and smiled.

"You know, some of the happiest memories I have of my children were when we were flying. Just watching the three of them on their broomsticks, laughing and having a good time ... I miss those days."

Rosmerta smiled sadly at him, and then something struck her. "That's it, Percival! I'll call it _The Three Broomsticks_!"

He looked back at her and smiled. "You would really do that?"

"I _will_ do that."

"Miss Callaway, there you are!" Rosmerta turned and saw Walter rushing towards her with his wand lit.

"Oh, I suppose I have to go," she said, finding herself suddenly sad without the influence of the Dementors. "It was a pleasure meeting you, Percival." She put her arm through the bars to shake hands with the old man.

"The pleasure's all mine, Miss Rosmerta." He knelt over and kissed her hand.

As she walked away from his cell with Walter firmly gripping her arm again - and no doubt leaving a bruise there - she could see Percival heading back to his bed to hide the chocolate bar, humming to himself.

_**The End**_

**Author's Note:**

I must admit, sometimes I amaze myself. lol, jk.

I hope you all enjoyed this kinda weird story. Reviews make my day, and flames give me the push to keep writing, so you should definitely do one of them, okay? Good.

-Lizzy =)


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